


Look Again

by Doomsteady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Asexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, John loves sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn with Feelings, Trapped In A Closet, but Sherlock might actually like it even more than he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9691514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doomsteady/pseuds/Doomsteady
Summary: Perhaps the most predictable thing about Sherlock, John thought, was that he always managed to surprise him.





	1. Chapter 1

A heavy boot smeared a muddy print on the back of John’s shirt as the brute jerked the rope back. The coils tightened at once, his and Sherlock’s bodies squeezing even closer and forcing a rough grunt out of John’s lungs.

 _Typical_ , John thought, his nose squashed against the front of Sherlock’s pristine shirt. _Bloody typical, this._

The boot on his back shoved them away, sending their bound feet scuffing a clumsy tango along the concrete, grit scattering underfoot. Dark suited goons jeered at them from all sides, drunk on power and victory.

They’d been caught out. An unexpected patrol had stumbled upon their hiding spot out of blind, dumb luck. On all other counts, they had been meticulously careful; John’s army training being just as useful in situations like these as Sherlock’s route-finding and planning often was, but the result of their discovery was the same either way: They’d been captured. Their plan to eavesdrop on the clandestine money exchange was scuppered. Sherlock had been so furious with himself as to curse aloud.

The ringleader of the group stepped forward, an older man in a bespoke suit. Bald, gruff in both voice and appearance, his expensive attire did little to pretty up his image; John couldn’t help but think he looked like a dressed-up boar, for all the good it did him.

The man — Salvatore, because of course he’d be Italian — leaned in close to Sherlock’s ear. His breath stank of cigar ash, bitter and rotten. He was so close to John’s face that John had to fight the urge to headbutt the smarmy wanker, but one warning glance from Sherlock’s sharp, oceanic eyes put paid to the idea. They would get him eventually, but not now. Right now, survival and escape were paramount.

“Nearly had us all figured out, didn’t you?” The man’s thin lips pulled into a mocking grin. “So close,” he crooned. “The great Sherlock Holmes, Consulting _Pain-in-the-Arse_. Got cocky, eh? It’s just as well. We can’t have you ballsing our whole operation up, now can we?”

Sherlock’s face, mere inches from John’s own, remained passive and unimpressed by the man’s taunts. To look at him, one might assume the whole affair was a minor inconvenience. He looked bored, only mildly irritated to have been stripped of his coat, his hands bound behind his back and the rest of him tied to his friend, ankles to sternum.

His was a look that gave no applause to their captors, no acknowledgement of their having outwitted their opponent. It was an air of arrogant confidence, as if their eventual escape was a foregone conclusion. Child’s play.

Knowing him as well as John did, that was very likely the truth of it.

But pressed together as they were, chest-to-chest, John could clearly feel the thrum of Sherlock’s elevated heartbeat against his own. The man wasn’t impervious to the effects of adrenaline. It matched John’s own heavy pulse, the noise of which hissed in his ears and throbbed in his wrists where the thin rope dug painfully into his skin.

“I had rather hoped to put a damper on your day, yes. Nevermind, though. You’re a slippery fish, Salvatore, but even you can’t hope to slip the net every time.”

Salvatore’s grin widened until he broke into a rattling, sickly laugh. His goons joined in, right on cue. “Oh, Mr Holmes! You forget your current predicament. What nets should I need to slip, now that the fisherman himself has been hooked?”

The clunk of a car boot unlocking echoed through the underground level. Two things kept circling in John’s mind: One, that these thugs probably intended to kill them and dump their bodies somewhere they were unlikely to be discovered. And two, how much he wished it didn’t require the excuse of a hostage situation to be this physically close to his flatmate.

Because God, he’d been an idiot, hadn’t he? How many months had it been since that night at Angelo’s? Their first case together; chasing a serial killer through the streets of London. And John, already so infatuated by Sherlock’s strange charms, unable to contain himself any longer.

He just had to ask. Could they? Was he…?

He’d surprised even himself with his forwardness, but poor Sherlock had looked downright panicked by the advance. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Sherlock had been forced to let him down in no uncertain terms.

_While I’m flattered by your interest…_

John Watson: Blogger, Flatmate, Monumental _Idiot_. And now this was it: This was the last time he would experience the two of them sharing each other’s body heat, and not once had it ever been under more pleasant circumstances. Was it possible to mourn the loss of something he’d never had? Because he was pretty sure this is how it feels.

In hindsight, it was even more of a shock that Sherlock had managed to reject him in a manner that was surprisingly gentle for the ‘high-functioning sociopath’. But, well, they both knew that label didn’t entirely apply. Though Sherlock preferred to maintain the myth for his public image, given their living arrangements, it was impossible to hide his true nature from John for long.

Everyone they knew now considered John the foremost expert on Sherlock Holmes, and not without good reason: They had grown thick as thieves in no time at all. And one thing he knew for sure about his strange, brilliant flatmate? He was no sociopath. His major problem seemed to be his difficulty to connect with and express his emotions. But hell, even John himself struggled with that, and most people considered him a perfectly normal bloke.

After Angelo’s, John hadn’t asked again. He respected his friend’s feelings and didn’t question their status in each other’s lives. But part of him always wondered if things might have developed differently, if only he hadn’t jumped the gun like a giddy teenager.

Trying to get into the man’s pants after only a day of knowing him? God, he must have seemed a right prat.

Breaking through John’s thoughts, two goons stepped forward, grabbing their arms and shoving them towards the car. John felt Sherlock’s body stiffen the moment his calves touched the bumper, and a moment later they were toppling awkwardly over and down into the cramped space.

“Shall we go for a swim, Mr Holmes?” he heard behind them, amidst the heckling of the thugs. Someone picked up their bound legs and swung them inside, hauling their dead-weight bodies into a position that could allow the boot to close over their heads. With a slam, the light was shut out. External sounds dulled to a muffled whisper of voices and the soft tread of boots. Inside, only their breaths were loud and clear.

“You alright?” John asked against Sherlock’s head, tasting for a moment the thick curls brushing the corner of his mouth. He winced at how the combined weight of himself and Sherlock lying over him was crushing his hands against the upholstery. “Felt you knock your head a bit on the way in. Does it hurt?”

John felt Sherlock’s low reply rumble like nightclub bass through both of their chests. “Mm,” he said. “It’ll bruise. It’s fine. What about you, can you breathe well enough? I’d get off if I could, but…”

“I’m fine,” John said, his eyes blindly seeking detail in the pitch black of the boot. He thanked his lucky stars neither of them were claustrophobic.

Outside, he could hear people approaching the car. A door opened, then another, and the suspension bounced and sank as their captors boarded. He dropped his voice to a strained whisper. “So, what’s the plan?”

Sherlock’s words were a tickling heat against John’s neck. “We have to loosen the ropes first. Can’t do anything with my hands tied like this.”

The engine roared to life, sending its vibrations through the chassis. It sunk into John’s bones and rattled his teeth. It was louder here than in the cabin, and a moment later, Sherlock began shifting his shoulders and hips in a serpentine movement. It forced John’s body to rock right along with him.

His breath caught in his throat as his brain momentarily whited-out.

“Move, John,” Sherlock ordered. “It’ll loosen quicker if we’re both working at it. They won’t hear over the engine.”

In the dark, John nodded and started mimicking Sherlock’s movements. Stopped a moment later. Actually, that wasn’t such a good idea.

“Um, Sherlock…” he began. Sherlock, still moving, didn’t reply. His whole weight was on top of John as he rhythmically worked his limbs against the ropes. He shifted them up and down, up and down, flexing and relaxing his muscles. His breath started coming in shallow pants that made John’s skin raise in goosebumps. Worse still, the motion was causing their hips to rub together in a way that simply couldn’t be ignored.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, barely able to prevent his body from twitching at every bolt of pleasure that was skittering up his spine. “Could you… Stop. Sherlock, stop, please.”

“Why?” Sherlock paused over him, their chests constricting with every laboured breath. The air had turned humid, a little stifling. John could feel the sweat beading on his forehead.

“Because it’s killing my wrists,” John said, because that was true, technically. He wasn’t about to admit that what was really concerning him was the reaction happening between his legs. Mercifully, it seemed Sherlock hadn’t yet caught on.

“A lot more than your wrists will end up dead if we don’t get out of here, John.” He strained his arms outward, tested the limits of the rope again. “I think it’s working, but it needs more. Look, just hold still, alright? I’ll try to make this quick.”

“Alright…”

As Sherlock began shifting again, John tried to think of anything other than the myriad fantasies he’d had over the years about the man currently writhing like a lover on top of him.

He thought of cold showers.

Of mutilated corpses.

Of Mycroft in women’s lingerie.

That last one, unexpected but horrifically detailed in his mind, caused him to break into a giggle.

“Glad you’re in such a giddy mood,” Sherlock’s voice came out rough from the exertion, his breath hitching between the words. “You could help, you know.”

“Sorry,” John shook his head, still grinning at the mental image. At this entire situation. This was ridiculous; here they were, trapped in a car boot, tied together with Sherlock frotting against him as if his life depended on it, because it actually did. John’s mind stuck picturing Mycroft in a brassier and lacy panties. Ripples of laughter ran through him, made unsteady by Sherlock’s movements.

This couldn’t really be happening, could it? John felt a little hysterical. “It’s nothing, just— _Ohhh_.”

A bump in the road shifted their position by a degree, causing Sherlock’s hips to grind directly along John’s half-hard cock, and a helpless moan escaped John’s throat before he could prevent it.

Sherlock went still at that. John’s erection throbbed between them, as obvious as the nose on his face.

 _Oh_ , indeed.

“S-Sorry,” John stammered. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“It’s um. It’s fine.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Perfectly natural response.”

“Yeah, it’s just… The friction, it’s…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Right.”

“But I have to…”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just… Ignore.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before he started tentatively moving again. John could tell he was trying to avoid it, but there was no room to manoeuvre. Plus, if anything, it was having an even greater effect on him now that they had acknowledged it. That he knew Sherlock was aware that his shimmying was arousing him only made John’s cock twitch in perverted glee.

God, what the _hell_ was wrong with him?!

And Sherlock kept going, because he had to, delivering an inexorable rhythm of frottage against John’s crotch that soon had him breathing hard through his nose. Every brush sent heavy drags of pleasure up his spine and down into his bollocks, bringing him rock-solid and building into a serious threat of something more, something with a very definite _climax_.

“Sherlock, for real…” John bit his lip. This had to stop soon, or else he was going to lose it entirely, but he couldn’t think of a way to say ‘ _I’m about to come in my pants_ ’ that wouldn’t leave him mortally humiliated for the rest of his life. He eventually settled on a breathless, “Surely they’re loose enough by now?”

“Not quite. Just a few more minutes.”

“Sherlock—” His voice rasped, more a rush of air than sound. This couldn’t be happening to him. This wasn’t _fair_.

“Grit your teeth, man!”

John clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, but nothing could block out the sensation of Sherlock rubbing against him, dragging over his cock, increasing in speed and pressure as the binds around them gradually loosened. John was losing himself to the pleasure, the world narrowing down to the tightening of his muscles and the bubbling fire preparing to erupt in his groin. The urge to rut up and finish it was becoming an almost unbearable temptation.

The sounds Sherlock was making in his ear— grunting, panting with effort, certainly weren’t helping. His lips were brushing against him occasionally, accidentally, just beneath his earlobe. It was all so painfully intimate. Almost indistinguishable from the real thing. And combined with the see-saw swaying of his slender hips as they ground against John in just the right way…

John was fast approaching his limit.

“Sherlock,” he tried again, desperation keening in his voice even as he tried to stay quiet, lest their captors overhear. “Sherlock, please…”

“Hold on, John.”

“Fuck… I don’t… Don’t think I…” John’s mind clouded over. The smell of Sherlock’s skin, the press of his body, the _heat_ of it. The hammering rhythm of his heart. The sound of his voice in his ear, deep, thick as dark chocolate and smooth as velvet. Luxurious. John’s every sense: Sherlock. _Sherlock_. Everywhere, inside his mind and out of it. Every thrust dragging him ever closer, closer, _closer_. Behind closed eyelids, John gazed into Sherlock’s eyes and saw those pupils blown wide with pleasure, and it was enough. It all was too much.

“Please, please… Oh, please… Sher… Please, _please_ —!”

Once it began, he couldn’t stop it. The air was forced out of his lungs as he came, groaning helplessly into Sherlock’s shirt collar. His hips jerked up, hard, meeting the solid resistance of Sherlock’s thigh as his whole body tried to curl against Sherlock’s pinning weight. His fists clenched tight behind his back and his toes curled in the confines of their shoes. A litany of ‘pleases’ and ‘Sherlocks’ spilled from his lips as his cock pulsed between them, thick and hot.

It seemed to go on for an embarrassingly long time.

The waves gradually abated, and his muscles unwound themselves, relaxing enough to allow him to lay down flat again, mortified and gasping for air. For a moment, neither of them moved or spoke. The moment was frozen between them, undefined and fuzzy at the edges. But there was no need to spell it out. If his moaning hadn’t given it away, his frenzied rutting certainly had.

John’s heart was still pounding in his chest when Sherlock pulled at the ropes again. John could feel the difference in the tension, but it still amazed him when Sherlock’s right arm slipped up and out of the coils, followed by his left. Then, having created enough extra slack in the rope by freeing his limbs, Sherlock slid his torso down through the coils around their chests. Honestly, the man was like a god damned contortionist.

Panic momentarily gripped him when Sherlock was forced to rub his face along John’s crotch, because God knows what it smelled like down there. He froze, not daring to move an inch, until at last Sherlock’s upper-half was freed of its binds. John shuffled over to allow Sherlock to settle on the floor of the boot beside him, and together they made short work of the rope tying their legs.

“What now?” John asked, shoving aside his shame and anxiety and focusing on the problem at hand. There would be time to examine the fallout from this later. Pale light flooded the cramped space when Sherlock switched on his phone, and both of them squinted while their eyes got used to the glare.

Sherlock was already reaching for something hidden in his sock when the car rolled to a halt.

“Shit. Are we too late?” John whispered, his body tensing despite the post-orgasmic lethargy weighing heavy in his limbs.

“Traffic light,” Sherlock replied, leaning forward to mess with the boot lid. He had something slim in his hand; its smooth edge reflected the icy blue of the phone screen as he swivelled it into the lock’s mechanism. A few quick jiggles and the lid popped open, allowing a rush of cold London air into the space and revealing a sliver of damp road beyond.

John moved to clamber his way out, but Sherlock gripped his arm. “Not yet,” he said. “Wait until the car starts moving. They’ll notice the weight let up if we get out now.” They sat poised like stone statues, waiting for the moment. Then, the lurch of the engine. “Now!”

John rolled out of the boot first, gripping the lid to stop it raising too far. Sherlock slipped out behind him almost immediately. The car was away from them before he had a chance to shut the lid and hide the evidence of their escape. It would only be seconds before someone would notice it.

“Forget it, John. Run!”

 

* * *

 

 

It was thanks to Sherlock’s encyclopedic knowledge of London that their pursuers quickly lost sight of them through the labyrinth of back-alleys and side streets. With one last check to make sure they weren’t still being followed, they slowed to a brisk stroll as they headed back in the direction of Baker Street.

It was late now. The streets were dark, empty save for the occasional drunkard wobbling his way home from a pub crawl. Still struggling to catch their breaths, John and Sherlock shared one glance before they broke into exhausted laughter, high on the thrill of the chase.

“I can’t believe they didn’t notice us double back on them,” John said, shaking his head in disbelief. His earlier embarrassment had cooled to a low simmer in his gut, displaced as it was by the much more urgent matter of their escape.

“Idiots,” Sherlock agreed, a smug grin on his face as he pulled out his phone. “They really thought they had us. You’d think the criminal classes would have learnt to stop underestimating us by now.”

John huffed a laugh at his feet. “I think that’s giving them a little too much credit. And it’s _you_ they’re underestimating. I’d say their estimation of me is pretty on-point.”

“Nonsense, John. You manage to surprise me on an almost daily basis.” It was a vague comment, and John preferred to assume it was in reference to anything other than what had happened to him tonight. Sherlock didn’t look at him as he finished up a text and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “There. Lestrade should be able to track down the car from the registration info. If we’re lucky, they won’t have dumped it somewhere already.”

As they made their way home, Sherlock stared ahead, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He looked every bit as perfectly _Sherlock Holmes_ as he ever did, the unflappable git. For all that he’d been shoved into a cramped car boot and then spent the past ten minutes fleeing a gang of armed thugs through the streets, Sherlock seemed to have some magical ability to remain almost entirely unruffled. His clothes had straightened themselves, and his hair looked tousled, but no moreso than it did that morning when he’d purposefully styled it that way. Nor did he seem at all phased by what had happened between them in the boot.

But John was having far greater difficulty letting it go. The night air was cooling his sweat-damp skin, raising goosebumps as he zipped up his denim jacket to ward off the chill. With his pulse calming back into something resembling its normal rhythm, he was just now noticing how badly he needed a shower. He felt like a mess, and not just in terms of the one he’d created in his pants.

He was already sensing the change in his mind, even as he tried desperately to deny it. Before today, he’d always been able to compartmentalise his feelings for Sherlock. The man was his best friend. Platonic or not, this was the most important relationship in his life. They had killed for each other, and both knew the other was willing to die for them, and none of it hinged on some vague hope or the promise of a deeper, more intimate connection waiting somewhere on the horizon. They didn’t need it; they were already soulmates.

John had never been a selfish man; he was grateful for whatever life deemed fit to gift his way. But there had been a time, right back in the beginning, when he had dared to have such hopes. Perhaps because at that time, he had no idea how important Sherlock would become to him. Sherlock was his closest and most treasured friend, too important to lose, and now it was unthinkable that he would risk what they had in the pursuit of something more. Fantasies be damned: Real life wasn’t always perfect, but it was at least _real_. There was no point in pining after the unattainable.

And yet, he couldn’t push it out of his mind: The memory of how it felt to be so close to him, being brought over the edge by him, with his scent in his nose and his body pressed close. He couldn’t delete things like Sherlock could. It would be with him for the rest of his life.

Sherlock managed to be an endlessly fascinating friend. He was everything John could ever ask for in a companion that would, in all likelihood, be with him for life. Before tonight, John had found he could live with that quite easily, in the end— just being near to him, caught in the orbit of his celestial gravity. Always up close. Always from afar.

But now, he was struggling to remember how that had ever been possible. Glancing up at Sherlock’s moon-struck profile, his heart twisted beneath his ribs; the man was beautiful. A figure cut from marble, all sharp angles and long, smooth surfaces. John looked at him now and saw him in all the ways that screamed _this is not how people look at their platonic friends_. He couldn’t help it. One sultry glance from Sherlock right then would have brought John fully hard again in seconds.

Even though he never could stop finding Sherlock attractive in that way, he had always kept such thoughts under careful guard, considerate of his friend’s feelings. Never once did he let them dictate their interactions, no matter how enticing those ideas had occasionally been. That’s how it always was, and how it always was meant to be, because Sherlock didn’t want him like that. He didn’t need a lover; he needed a friend.

But that tamped down flame of desire burned brighter than ever now, and he didn’t know what to do. The entire future of their friendship now pivoted on the fulcrum of his troubling emotions.

They walked together in silence, John’s mind turning over and over with increasingly dire conclusions. It wasn’t until Sherlock stopped short and caught John’s arm that his focus snapped back to the present.

“John. Stop.” John turned to look at him, and that was a mistake. Sherlock’s uncharacteristically open expression told John everything he didn’t want to know about the conversation they were about to have.

“Leave it. It’s fine,” John said, looking away. “Let’s just go home. Alright?”

Sherlock pressed his lips thin, a crease deepening between his brows. “You’re worrying about what happened. In the boot.” It wasn’t a question, but John shook his head anyway. “You think I’ll think differently of you. Judge you badly for it? I can assure you, John, that there is absolutely nothing to be—”

“That’s not.” John stepped away from him, running twitching fingers through his hair. He couldn’t do this right now. “That’s not what… I’m just. It was embarrassing. Okay? That’s all. I don’t want to talk about it. Please can we not talk about it?”

John could feel those piercing eyes bore into his back, only agitating him further. The last thing he wanted in that vulnerable moment was to be flayed open by Sherlock’s merciless observations. But after a moment, he heard Sherlock release a quiet breath.

“Alright,” he said, as if soothing a frightened colt. “Alright. I won’t mention it again.”

He resumed along their path, allowing John to fall into step beside him, grateful for the opportunity to regroup himself. The next time Sherlock spoke, he sounded spirited. “Shall we pick up some chips on the way home? That little place down Audley should still be open this time of night, I think.”

The automatic ‘ _no thanks_ ’ was on the tip of John’s tongue, but he swallowed it, his throat suddenly tight. He knew Sherlock was just trying to cheer him up. An offer of chips should not be so endearing, but the idea of Sherlock willingly dropping a loose thread and attending to John’s needs spoke volumes about how much the man cared for him. His curiosity over the subject hadn’t abated, John knew, but he was at least making an effort to move past it. That deserved some sort of a reward.

He forced a nod and a smile. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go get chips.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock watched as John speared a chip with his plastic fork and blew a cooling stream of air onto the steaming morsel. Gripping it cautiously between his teeth before drawing it back onto his tongue, John’s storm-cloud expression brightened minutely at the burst of flavour. It was a gratifying sign. Sherlock’s stomach did a little flip at the improvement.

For as long as he could remember, Sherlock had never concerned himself with trying to appease those who attempted to call themselves his ‘friends’. Most, he observed, hung around him only for the simple convenience his deductive abilities provided. It certainly wasn’t for his charming personality.

In university, his classmates made sure to include him only up to a point where they could copy his notes and borrow his brain for their assignments. He was more human calculator than social equal. But he allowed it, because as shallow and self-serving as it was, some sad part of him had always thrived on the praise of others. Even now, the Yarders kept on tenuously amiable terms with him, only because they had too many murders to solve and not enough braincells between them to accomplish it.

John was different.

It was hard to pin down the reason John accepted him so readily, but it was nothing like the kind of selfishness others so frequently used him for. John had nothing he would consider ‘valuable’ to gain by staying by Sherlock’s side— on the contrary, sometimes merely the fact of their acquaintance put John in considerable danger.

On the surface, John was an unremarkable man. In the months before meeting Sherlock, his life had been following the time-old script of the soldier returned home from war, injured and struggling to rediscover his place in common society. Had it not been for his limp, it would have been so easy to overlook him, to dismiss him off-hand as not worthy of a second glance.

But, that limp told a different story, a story spoken only in the subtext of his age-worn features. _Psychosomatic_. A traumatic injury, something laden with guilt. A friend had died, perhaps while John was still working to staunch the flow of blood, to keep him conscious just a few minutes more until help could arrive.

His friend had died. John had blamed himself for it, and Sherlock could tell, just by the look in his eyes, that he would have given anything to take his place on the sand.

When Sherlock looked again, he saw not just a lonely, suicidal Army medic with a shoulder injury and a deathwish, but a man brimming with untold secrets and endless, fascinating potential. John Watson was a man whose outward appearances belied a secret myriad of inner qualities.

What was it, then, that drew them together so inexorably?

From the first day they had met, Sherlock had dedicated a not-insubstantial corner of his Mind Palace to the collection and aggregation of every bit of data he could glean about his new friend, John. From the exact fabric composition of his fluffy jumpers, to how often brand new crow’s feet would etch themselves into the lines of his eyes— it seemed the subject of John could never bore him, and more often than not, the man regularly found new ways to surprise him.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself grasping for excuses to keep someone in his life, rather than push them away. Luckily for him, it had taken very little persuasion to have John pack up his meagre belongings, leave his dour little bedsit and move into Baker Street with him.

Nowadays, Sherlock couldn’t picture him living anywhere else.

That same man sat across from him now in the tiny chip shop, staring thoughtfully into his plate. Whatever troubled him was a mystery. He knew it was something about what happened in the boot of that car. But it couldn’t be such a simple thing as embarrassment, could it? That simply didn’t make any sense.

John was a soldier. He was also a doctor. He’d been to war, had men die in his arms. He was not a squeamish man. Natural bodily functions didn’t phase him, not usually. Not in the time Sherlock had known him, and he had shown John a great many mutilated corpses during their time together.

So then why was _this_ bothering him? His body had responded as any normal human male would. Surely John knew that, so why was he suddenly behaving as if he’d crossed some uncrossable line, or revealed too much about himself?

Was there any truth in those observations? It was merely intuition, but Sherlock found himself at a loss, bereft of further data to expand upon any theory that presented itself. His friend, always such an open book to him, had suddenly closed himself off, as if Sherlock’s gaze could accidentally spark at some brittle part of him and set his entire, fragile inner world ablaze.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reach over and open his skull, peer inside and discover the cause of his uncharacteristic quiescence. But whatever it was, John didn’t want to discuss it. He’d said it, to Sherlock’s annoyance, in no uncertain terms.

It was tempting to ignore his wishes, to pick and pry at it, pull at the thread until the whole problem unravelled. Sherlock could get to the bottom of it, he knew. He could help, somehow. There would be something he could do, something he could say to make the whole thing go away. But John would probably appreciate that even less.

So he simply watched.

John lifted another chip to his mouth, his eyes flicking up to catch Sherlock’s across the table. Paused. Looked away, lowering his fork again. Shifted in his seat.

A moment later, Sherlock’s patience was rewarded.

“I’m about done with these. Sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“’Kay.” He cleared his throat. Stalling for time, or perhaps searching for the right words? “Sex always gives me an appetite.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to fidget, caught out by the unexpected admission. John seemed to hear the echo of his own words a moment later. His head flew up, eyes wide as he fumbled to correct himself. “Not that— That wasn’t— I just mean—”

A cheeky smile tugged at the corners of his lips. John could be so adorable at times. “For God’s sake,” he said, “I know what you meant. Anyway, I thought you didn’t want to talk about it?”

“I don’t,” John replied, as if suddenly remembering, and pushed his plate away.

It was nearing midnight when they exited the chip shop, and the night chill had properly set in by then. Fortunately, home was just a few minutes walk.

“I ‘spose it just seems a bit… unfair,” John continued, apropos of nothing. Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye.

“What does?”

“That I ended up in that state, while you… I mean. You didn’t even.”

He waited. A minute later, it seemed John had given up his train of thought. Sherlock couldn’t bear to leave it alone. “Didn’t even what?”

“You didn’t even get hard!” John’s voice rang out loud in the street. On the opposite pavement, a lone passer-by glanced their way, giving them an odd look. Sherlock glared at her in return.

Frustrated and upset by his own outburst, John’s pace picked up considerably. Sherlock, with his long legs, easily kept pace; now that John was opening up a little, he was not about to let this go easily.

“That’s what’s bothering you?” he asked, not trying to hide the bewilderment in his voice. “That I didn’t get an erection?” He supposed that made sense. Perhaps John worried there was something wrong with having reacted that way, that it made him a pervert, perhaps? “Would you have preferred if I had?”

“No!” John cried. “No, just… Alright, yes. But not for the reasons you’re probably thinking.”

“I can’t think of any reason.”

John huffed a tired, defeated laugh. They came to a stop outside their front door. John fished his keyring out of his jacket pocket, making quick work of the lock. Sherlock quietly followed him inside.

John shucked his jacket in the hallway as Sherlock hovered, enrapt by the unfolding drama, at his elbow. Could he really be blamed? He got excited at the sight of corpses, and this, whatever it was, was no more pleasant but equally as fascinating. It was something new about John, something totally unexpected, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to understand it inside and out.

Upstairs, stepping into their flat, John was still quiet. Sherlock decided to try prompting him.

“You realise there’s a height difference between us,” he said, matter-of-factly. “There was little friction being applied on my end of the equation. And even if there were, you weren’t in the correct position to feel any evidence of it.”

John settled on the couch and scrubbed his hands over his eyes, looking for all the world like he wanted the furniture to swallow him up. “Yeah. Of course, that makes sense.”

Quiet again. Sherlock pursed his lips. _In for a penny_ …

“Not that there would have been such evidence, either way.”

It took a second, but then a flicker of confusion crossed John’s face. He looked up, meeting Sherlock’s eye. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed once, twice. Sherlock could see multiple conclusions being drawn and discarded behind his eyes from the simple statement. Eventually John said, “What does that mean?”

Sherlock lifted one laconic shoulder and dropped into his leather chair by the hearth. It seemed the only way he would be able to tease out John’s secrets would be by revealing some of his own. It was a fair trade, he supposed, for such an intimate topic. If John felt backed into a corner, exposed and vulnerable, he was that much less likely to share his thoughts.

A subject like this one required an even playing field.

“It means that I don’t feel things that way,” he said. “It would take a lot more to provoke the same reaction in me than a few minutes of frotting. Mostly, I just find that sort of contact… uncomfortable. You’ve heard of asexuality before, yes?”

He wasn’t prepared for the creeping horror that spread across John’s face as the words sank in. John spent a considerable amount of time just blinking at him in the wake of the confession, stunned right back into the silence that Sherlock had been hoping to tempt him out of.

Eventually he got up, mumbled something about a shower, and left Sherlock alone in the room. The bathroom door closed a moment later, and Sherlock heard the creak of the pipes as the water was run.

Oh, he thought, a cold panic rising up his spine like a wave of frost. _Was that… a bit Not Good?_

 

* * *

 

Well. Maybe he had miscalculated that, a bit.

Sherlock had, of course, anticipated some level of surprise on John’s part. Sex and sexuality was something neither of them had ever really talked about before. John’s proclivities in that regard were obvious enough, even if one were to disregard the string of weekend girlfriends and one-night-stands trailing behind him. As for what John thought about Sherlock’s preferences… he truly had no idea.

Sherlock knew that asexuality was an uncommon orientation, often misunderstood. Most people didn’t even realise such a thing was possible, and those that did usually considered it a ‘condition’, the result of some medical abnormality, or impotence.

He had hoped that John would find some relief in the knowledge that both of them had reacted just as either of them would have been expected to. But rather than being comforted by the revelation, he seemed all the more disturbed by it.

Whatever Sherlock had imagined his reaction might be, _horror_ had not been among the list of possibilities.

It didn’t make sense. Didn’t fit his character. John was not one to judge other people by such shallow criteria, least of all Sherlock himself. He had always been one of the most accepting and understanding people he’d ever had the good fortune to know.

John had hurriedly excused himself into the bathroom, no doubt eager to scrub away the messy results of the night. Perhaps he also needed some space to process this new information in private, where his features could not give away his displeasure.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Displeasure? Sherlock found himself adrift in confusion, because the clues he was picking up painted the absurd picture of a man appalled, possibly even disgusted, by his friend’s inability to reciprocate in an act that had been entirely unintentional to begin with.

John had a tendency to challenge his expectations, but this conclusion was beyond the pale. Sherlock couldn’t accept it. He needed more data.

It was gone midnight, and the wind howled through the street beyond the living room windows, cold and aimless. John took his time in the shower. When he finally emerged, he simply wished Sherlock good night and climbed the stairs to his room.

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, and meditated.

At some point in the next several hours he must have nodded off to sleep in his chair. The next thing he knew, the morning sun was spilling in wide rectangles across the carpet of the living room, and there were sounds of movement from upstairs.

Sherlock listened carefully. He could distinguish John’s footsteps, drawers being opened, and something fabric being dropped to the floor. A zipper opening. Indeterminate rustling. The zipper closed. He didn’t like these sounds; they weren’t part of John’s normal morning routine.

Fear suddenly shivered across his skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck. Unable to remain passive, Sherlock found himself climbing the stairs to John’s room, deliberately stepping on the creaky boards to announce his presence. John’s bedroom door was unlatched, and Sherlock pressed it open slowly.

John didn’t stop packing, or turn to face him when Sherlock asked, redundantly, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to stay at Harry’s for a while.” He sounded weary, as if he hadn’t slept much, or at all.

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m moving out.”

He took a step into the room. The bed was immaculately made; all neat, military corners, and several of John’s bedside possessions were missing, the surfaces they had once adorned looking unnaturally bare in their absence. “But, why?”

John stood from where he’d been crouched over a suitcase, folding shirts and stuffing them inside. One hand gripped the armoire in front of him, the other rubbing back and forth over an eyebrow. “Because I can’t live here anymore. With you.”

“John, I don’t—”

He turned abruptly, meeting Sherlock’s eyes and locking him in place with an intense, pained look. The clock on the wall stopped ticking.

A memory pricked at the back of Sherlock’s mind: The night they first met. Angelo’s. Candlelight gleaming in John’s bright, cerulean eyes. A look of bare-faced admiration, centred and directed at him like a sunbeam, honey-gold and warm. Nobody had ever looked at him that way before.

Sherlock could still remember the way his skin had tingled with delight the first time John had called him ‘amazing’. Even now it still had that same effect. His praise was a novelty that never wore off, steeped as it was in such genuine affection.

It was cyclical, this pleasure of being praised and the pleasure of giving that praise; they fed off each other, lifted each other up. The more amazing Sherlock made himself, the brighter John shone by his side, and it was through that lens that Sherlock honed his brilliance to a crystal edge. They had created a positive feedback loop that only ever gained energy the more it circled around, picking up fresh vigour on every pass.

But on that first night at Angelo’s, there had been something more. Praise of a different kind; a deeper, fuller appreciation, something all-encompassing. Something hungry, carnal, possessive. It was a look of sheer _want_.

That look had thrilled Sherlock to his core. It had also terrified him.

But it was too much, too soon. Sherlock couldn’t yet make sense of his own feelings, freshly-thawed as they were by this new presence in his life. John had been disappointed by the rejection, but hadn’t complained. He had been a steadfast companion ever since, and neither of them had broached the topic again.

But it had never truly been forgotten. Some remnant of it remained in their lives, desperately unspoken. Now it seemed that the events of last night had caused the long-buried issue to resurface— and not only for John.

In the face of John preparing to remove himself from Sherlock’s life for good, Sherlock could find no other desire in his heart than to keep him here. Not to be his blogger, and not so that Sherlock would have a companion to accompany him on cases, but because Sherlock _wanted_ him: Mind, body and soul.

God help him, he had been in love with this man ever since he first laid eyes on him. It was only now that realisation was coming into sharp, dazzling focus. And whilst John had been struggling with his conflict of emotions, Sherlock had very stupidly told him the very _last_ thing he’d wanted to hear.

It all made sense now.

“John, may I make a deduction?” Sherlock asked. It seemed only a few short seconds had passed, but during that time John’s intensity had withered, as if the very foundations of their friendship were crumbling beneath them.

“Sure,” John croaked, the hint of a sad smile in his voice, as if he fully expected this to be their final conversation. A lump formed in Sherlock’s throat. He had to get this right. Losing John was not an option.

“I think what initially troubled you about the incident last night wasn’t that I didn’t show the same physical response,” he began. “It was more to do with you coming to the realisation that you could no longer keep your feelings for me platonic in the face of what happened.” John averted his eyes briefly, but came right back as Sherlock ploughed on.

“I hadn’t forgotten that night at Angelo’s,” he continued. “The questions you asked, the… interest you showed. You wanted more. You still do. But last night appeared to you as an explicit confirmation that I did not reciprocate your desire for a closer relationship.

“Worse still, my admittance to being incapable of sexual attraction in the first place made you feel as if you were somehow taking advantage of our friendship, of the naivety you assumed I must have about romantic interests and signs and signals and everything else that comes with being in love.”

John had closed his eyes against the truth laid so bare, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“What you have failed to take into account, John, is that whilst I may have no personal appreciation for sexual fulfilment, that doesn’t make me immune to ambitions of the heart.” He reaching out to gently hold John's shoulders. “If you think me incapable of loving you in return, then you haven’t been paying close enough attention.”

Sherlock saw the full, blinding truth at last. John was in love with him; had been, perhaps, ever since that first case. He had managed to put that part of himself aside all this time, because there had always been that unspoken boundary between them, keeping them separate, keeping them platonic.

But forced to experience sexual gratification in his presence — delivered _by him_ , no less — had shattered that boundary and left John reeling.

Now he was panicking that they could never go back to how things were. That he could never look at Sherlock again and not think about what happened. Sherlock could see it clouding his expression, even now. He had to make him see that it didn’t matter.

“Neither of us want to go back, John. We’ve always been something more than just friends. Everybody picks up on it. Why don’t we just acknowledge it, at last?”

Again, contrary to expectation, his words only seemed to darken John’s mood.

“Even if that’s true,” John said, “it wouldn’t… I’d need more. Christ, I want you in ways that you can’t… Whatever you feel for me, Sherlock, it’s not enough. It breaks my heart to say it, but it’s true. It’s not your fault. But I can’t help it.”

Sherlock slid his hands down until he could wrap his fingers around John’s soft, trembling palms. “John, there is nothing you want from me that I’m incapable of giving to you. There’s nothing I don’t _want_ to give you.”

“That’s not true,” he said, biting his lip. “You know what I’m like. For me, sex and romance are two sides of the same coin. I can’t have one without the other.” John looked down at their joined hands, and Sherlock felt something wet splash against his skin. “I can’t,” he choked, shaking his head. “I can’t ask you to be something you’re not. It wouldn’t be fair on you, and I’d hate myself for it in the end.”

“John, look at me.” Sherlock could think of no other way of getting his message across. When John eventually lifted his chin, Sherlock seized his opportunity, leaning in and letting his eyes fall closed. With some gentle nuzzling to coax the angle, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to John’s lips, pouring everything he wanted to say into that one, simple touch.

Sherlock felt the tremor of indecision swaying him, torn as he was between pressing closer towards that which he so obviously longed for, and tearing himself away. Their lips barely parted, but neither of them moved, and Sherlock didn’t dare open his eyes just yet. “Have you ever known me to do something I didn’t want?” he whispered. Without waiting for a reply, he slid their mouths together again.

John’s resolve was melting beneath him. Pressing his advantage, Sherlock raised his hands to curl them around the back of John’s neck, cupping his head like some precious thing. Caught in the moment, John’s hands moved to circle Sherlock’s waist of their own accord.

“I love you,” Sherlock murmured against the wet of his lips, tasting the air he breathed. “You complete me, John. I want to do the same for you. You’re afraid there’s no way I could enjoy that, but you’re wrong. Nothing would gratify me more than to take you apart and put you back together, inch by inch.”

A strained whimper escaped John’s throat as Sherlock moved down to press his mouth to John’s carotid pulse beneath his ear. He let his lips tease against skin as he spoke. “I want to learn everything there is to know about you. I want to hear all the sounds you make when you let go, when you’re experiencing bliss under my hands, my lips,”—he dragged his tongue along the side of John’s neck, causing him to shudder and moan helplessly— “my tongue.”

“But you—” John swallowed tightly. “You don’t get anything out of this. It’s not fair.”

“Don’t I?” Sherlock said. He straightened, looking into John’s hooded eyes. That gave him an idea. “Let’s take a scientific approach then, shall we?”

Despite his hesitance to allow himself to be swayed, John seemed willing to allow this. “What did you have in mind?”

This was what he needed, Sherlock realised: Proof. Not words, not even actions— both could lie, even with good intentions. But the body, that did not lie. It gave off signals of pleasure and happiness that couldn’t be faked, even for a master of disguise such as himself. If Sherlock wasn’t enjoying himself, _truly_ enjoying it, then John would be able to measure the objective, irrefutable proof of his physiological state.

A thrill of elation ran through him. He had found the perfect litmus test.

To begin, Sherlock picked up one of John’s hands by the wrist and planted it flat against his chest: Test number one. “My heart rate, Doctor.”

“It’s elevated,” John said, considering the evidence as he splayed his fingers over the shirt, over Sherlock’s fluttering heart. “Could be fear. Anxiety.”

“Anticipation. Excitement.”

“Inconclusive,” John said, removing his hand. He wasn’t going to make this easy, clearly. But Sherlock could hear the intrigue behind his scepticism, and so he moved on to the next test.

“My breathing,” Sherlock offered, closing the distance between them again and lightly nudging John’s nose with his own. He dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “What do you make of it?”

John listened for a moment, his own breaths coming short. “It’s quicker than usual,” he said. “You sound out of breath, like you’ve been running about.”

“So do you.”

“Could still be fear,” John countered. “Sherlock, this isn’t proving anything. I know what you’re trying to do, but—”

Before he could finish voicing the flawed sentiment, Sherlock stole another kiss from him, cutting off the words. This time he parted his lips and ran the tip of his tongue pleadingly against the pliant seal of John’s mouth, and John surrendered for him almost immediately.

Their arms wrapped around each other, a quiet desperation pulling them closer. Sherlock managed to steer John away from the suitcase at their feet and pressed him back against the wall, crowding flush against his body. John’s erection was full and solid against Sherlock’s thigh; he deliberately moved his leg to tease along it.

John gasped into him, any semblance of control fast slipping away. Sherlock licked around the heat of John’s tongue and tasted the unspoken words he’d stalled, smoothing them away and writing his own in their place.

When they broke apart, they were both panting. Sherlock felt overwhelmed; wanted nothing more than to go back to that wet heat, but he had to rally himself. This was it: The final test. If this didn’t convince John of his desire to please him in all the ways they both wanted, then nothing would.

“Look at my eyes, John,” he said, cupping John’s face in his hands. “What do you see?”

Hazy-eyed and flushed, lips swollen and red, John gazed at him, his eyes flicking back and forth between Sherlock’s own. “They look…” His lip trembled and his eyes began to gleam with fresh tears. “They’re beautiful.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the huff of laughter, feeling the sting of his own tears threatening to well up. “No. Look again, John. Be specific. What do you _see_?”

And God love him, he did.


	3. Chapter 3

And there it was: The final proof. Sherlock’s irises were slim bands of silver around the expanse of his pupils. He was waiting, breath held, as if John held the answer to the most important question in the world.

“Do you see?”

All John could do was nod.

Relief washed over Sherlock’s face, and that clever mouth and tongue returned to continue playing their dazzling symphony between John’s teeth. His mind was reeling, barely able to keep up with what was happening between them. He still wasn’t sure he fully understood, but one thing was plain to see: Sherlock wanted this every bit as much as he did.

What exactly he was getting from the experience, John didn’t know. The comfort of another body, perhaps. Feeling safe to be this open with someone, to touch him and explore him in ways that would otherwise be forbidden. Feeding the hunger of Sherlock’s mind, rather than his body.

But the way Sherlock was touching him, kissing him— there was a physical hunger there, too. Needy little noises spilled from both their throats, hearts pounding and lungs gasping for air. But even as he pressed close, their hips grinding together against the wall of his room, Sherlock remained modest and soft between his legs.

“You like kissing,” John murmured against Sherlock’s swollen lips. “Heavy kissing. It’s a sexual thing, for me, this. But how does it feel for you? What do you get from it?”

“Closeness,” he replied, breaking the kiss to rest their foreheads together. Affection wrote itself in the lines of his eyes, the upward tilt of his mouth. “It makes me feel warm inside, and glad.”

“Glad?”

He hummed, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “To be able to express how much I adore you, and see the answer in your eyes,”—A slender hand snaked down between them—”and feel the fullness of it, here.”

Sherlock’s fingers took hold of him through his jeans, stroking slowly. John could do nothing but sigh and drape his arms over Sherlock’s shoulders, powerless under his ministrations. Sherlock bent low to nuzzle at John’s neck again, finding that sweet spot just beneath his ear that made him shudder and clutch fistfuls Sherlock’s shirt.

“I see you’ve already learnt— _ah_ —one thing to use against me,” John managed, pressing himself into the warmth of Sherlock’s palm. The deep chuckle by his ear was satisfying in ways that made little sense for mere sound. The smooth baritone rumbled through him on an express journey straight to his cock.

But one thing bothered him still. It was all well and good that Sherlock wanted to do these things for him, to touch him, pleasure him as a lover should— but John also yearned to feel Sherlock’s burning skin beneath his fingertips. Would he even want to be touched; to be as close as they were now, only lying in bed, skin to skin?

Or would such a thing repulse him?

He felt a tugging at his jeans then, the zipper sliding open, and Sherlock moved to delve beneath the waistband of his pants towards the centre of John’s aching need. It took a great deal of willpower to catch Sherlock’s wrist, stopping it before his hand could find its prize.

“Wait,” John said, “before this goes any further, I have to know something.”

“Anything.” He pressed a tender kiss along John’s jaw. So patient.

“Can I… touch you? Not in that way, just…”

“Yes,” he said. “Please. Anywhere. Everywhere.” He smiled at the look of gratitude that must have stole across John’s features. “Just remember what I said before, about the discomfort. You may touch, hold, feel any part of me you like. I only ask that you don’t aim to stimulate. Is that alright with you?”

“God, yes,” John breathed. “Thank you. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

He let go of Sherlock’s wrist then, his breath catching in his throat when those long, slim fingers curled around his cock. Their lips glided together again as John fumbled at Sherlock’s shirt buttons, hell-bent on getting his hands on the lean, muscular torso beneath.

The fabric fell from his shoulders, bunching around his elbows and exposing his broad chest. Tentatively, John’s hands traced over the firm mounds of his pecs, stroking along his heated skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch underneath. John grinned into their kiss.

“You’re ticklish,” he chuckled, feeling a stab of deviousness when Sherlock glared at him.

“Permission can be revoked at any time, you know,” he warned. “I wouldn’t push your luck if I were you. Not if you want this to continue.” He gestured below with a nod.

John was sure he meant it, too, so he wrapped his arms loosely around Sherlock’s thin waist, careful not to tickle him there, and pressed his mouth to the firm margin of his sternum. Sherlock’s fist worked in a slow rhythm, testing him with varying pressure, unsure and inexperienced. But it didn’t take him long at all to learn where and how John liked it most.

Soon John was like jelly in his hands, shaking with pleasure, and he thought that Sherlock meant to get him off like this, held up against the wall. Gasping, he mouthed at Sherlock’s skin; a light scrape of teeth, before sealing his lips and sucking red marks along his collarbone.

His knees were growing weak. Sherlock seemed to sense he was drawing close and withdrew his hand from John’s pants. Ignoring John’s whine of protest, Sherlock took his wrists and pulled him away from the wall. “Come over here. Sit,” he said, turning them both around and pushing John down onto the edge of the bed. “And take off your clothes,” he added, before sliding his crumpled shirt off the rest of the way.

Too far gone to argue, John obeyed, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of Sherlock unclothing himself. The shirt fell to the floor, and John couldn’t help but admire the sight of him as he divested of his own plaid button-down. Sherlock’s pale body was perfectly toned— not an ounce of fat on him. If not for the muscle mass, he would probably look gaunt. Instead he appeared sleek, powerful, like a jungle cat. Muscles flexed and tensed beneath his skin with the twisting of his frame. John drank in the sight of him.

“Hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you are dangerously sexy. You know that? You’re a bloody _panther_ , Sherlock Holmes. God, what you do to me.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a sheepish smile and his eyes flicked down, showing off for a moment the dark fans of his eyelashes. “Thank you. And I don’t mind at all. I love to hear it, coming from you.”

His hands went to his fly next, unbuttoning, keeping his dark eyes on John all the while. His touch was light and unhurried; it wasn’t as though he was putting on a deliberate show of undressing, nor was it entirely chaste, but John could see the awareness of his audience in each careful motion. This wasn’t a man getting changed for bed in the privacy of his own room. Perhaps he understood that John would want to appreciate this, savour every moment as Sherlock revealed himself for the first time.

He was right, of course. He was always right, especially when it came to matters concerning John.

John matched him as he undressed, article for article. When nothing but his pants remained, Sherlock hooked his thumbs under the waistband, preparing to pull down. John thought he saw a moment of hesitation there. Their eyes met, and he couldn’t be sure if he caught a hint of self-consciousness in that expression, briefly, before it was hidden behind a mask of confidence.

Now that the moment had arrived, was he having second thoughts? John wanted there to be no regrets. If Sherlock wasn’t ready for this, he wouldn’t push him to it. It was better to be safe than sorry.

“Are you sure you feel comfortable with this? You don’t have to. I’ll be just as happy—”

“John,” he scolded, “I’m a grown man. If I’m not comfortable doing something, I’ll say so. Now shut up and take off your boxers. That’s an order, Captain.”

He giggled at that. “Yes sir,” he answered with a mock salute. He slid out of his underwear, tossing them unceremoniously aside.

Without pause, Sherlock followed, and John leaned back on his elbows to let his gaze roam lower, licking his lips appreciatively. Between the lightly furred thighs, Sherlock’s genitals hung in repose, clean and neatly groomed. He was uncircumcised, the head of his penis hidden within the folded silk of his unblemished foreskin.

Being a doctor — and a bisexual, to boot — John had seen his fair share of cock and balls. As such things went, he found Sherlock’s to be on the prettier side. The member seemed average in length, though it was impossible to tell for sure unless he was to somehow get an erection. It was slightly darker than the rest of his complexion, but not visually striking.

It suited him. It was an odd thought, but John could imagine him walking around the house like this, completely naked, and he would look as prim and as elegant as he did in any of his tailored suits.

Though, it did feel a bit strange being the only person in the room with a raging erection, now standing rigid and blushing in the open. Sherlock was eyeing it with obvious interest.

 _Now who’s the self-conscious one_ , he thought wryly.

Ever the mind-reader, Sherlock’s arms circled his neck and urged him to lie down, carrying Sherlock onto the bed and down on top of him. John’s heart skipped when their members brushed together briefly, before Sherlock shifted himself to a more comfortable position and laid himself flat.

It was ridiculous to think this wasn’t the first time Sherlock’s body had laid heavy and warm on top of him. Only now, both of them naked in John’s room and not a thug or a rope in sight, it was for a much more deliberate purpose.

“You have a gorgeous cock, John,” he murmured between languid kisses. Laughter bubbled up from John’s chest; that was unexpected. He’d had compliments in the past, but he couldn’t recall anybody calling it ‘gorgeous’ before. John himself was slightly above average in both length and girth, and if anything, he’d feared the sight of him fully erect might be a little intimidating.

But there was nothing but sincerity in that youthful face. John’s hands found their way to stroking up and down his back, tracing the hills and valleys of his muscles, dipping beneath the harsh corners of his shoulder blades, all the way down to the ridges of his slender hips and over the plump round globes of his arse. He gave them a gentle squeeze.

John’s cock was trapped between them, twitching insistently and leaving a patch of wet against their stomachs where the head was leaking tiny beads of pre-come. But Sherlock didn’t seem to mind it. His stomach muscles rolled in a wave, and John moaned into his mouth.

“God, you are amazing, Sherlock. You know that?”

“I know,” he beamed, soaking up the praise. “What would you like me to do?” he asked. “Everyone has their preferences. I must admit to having limited experience, but I have been told my mouth is my greatest asset, in all _sorts_ of situations.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He tried to ignore the rumble of jealousy at the thought of Sherlock being like this for anybody else. His relationship history was a mystery to John. Had he even been in love before?

He almost hoped that was the case; the alternatives for his experience were either experimentation — which, knowing Sherlock’s haphazard ways, would have undoubtedly been risky, not to mention unpleasant for him — or as an exchange, a payment to his dealers during those dark times in his life where his addictions had taken hold.

He couldn’t stand the thought of Sherlock forcing himself to perform ‘favours’ in exchange for drugs. It must have been clouding his expression, because Sherlock sat up then, kneeling over him. His fingers traced lazy patterns over John’s abs.

“It was in university,” he said. “I thought I was in love. Turns out, he was just using me. But for a while it made me happy, and so few things did, back then. So I did everything he asked, to keep him close, because I was terrified of letting it end.”

John stroked his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs. “What a prat. I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.”

He shifted his shoulders and flashed a quick smile. “I haven’t thought about it in ages. On the plus side, I did pick up a few tricks, and the experience taught me a few things about myself. Back then, I didn’t really understand my preferences— or lack of them. I knew I was gay, romantically speaking, but people always seemed to expect a sexual relationship out of their partners.

"I found that I enjoyed those acts with someone I truly cared about, even if I didn’t receive physical pleasure from it. But I could never be someone’s casual boyfriend. It’s all or nothing, with me.”

“Lucky me, then,” said John, drawing out a more genuine smile from Sherlock’s angular face, one that made his eyes shine from beneath his dark lashes.

“Yes, lucky you,” he said, bending down to plant a soft kiss on John’s stomach. He trailed more kisses down, shifting back on his knees until his face was hovering above John’s solid erection. “Especially considering that I do rather enjoy sucking cock.”

Before John could prepare himself for it, Sherlock’s tongue flicked out to lick a broad, hot stripe from root to tip. It painted the underside of his cock in saliva that warmed beneath his breath. John threw his head back and gripped the sheets, his moan unexpectedly loud in the room. He gave a brief thought to whether Mrs Hudson was home, but Sherlock didn’t give him time to properly process it before he did it again, his tongue shimmying on its way up, applying extra pressure at his frenulum and sending sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine.

“Oh fuck, _Sherlock_ —” he gasped, but his words dissolved as Sherlock’s wet lips sealed over the head of his cock. His tongue slithered over the slit, licking away the salty liquid even as more started to emerge. John squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to catch the embarrassing noises he was making before they could escape his throat.

“Don’t do that,” he heard Sherlock say. “I want to hear you.”

His answer was loud when he started to sink into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, feeling those cupid-bow lips stretching wide around his girth. His hands found their own way into Sherlock’s dark curls, stroking through his hair and taking great efforts not to pull at it. He could feel Sherlock’s tongue pressing him up to slide against his palate, and when he pulled back, it flicked back and forth while his cheeks hollowed in suction.

He took John slowly, each time enveloping another inch of him, until John could feel himself encountering the back of his throat. He expected Sherlock to gag, but there was only the mildest fluttering and the cool rushing of air as he breathed through his nose. On the next pass, John almost lost it when Sherlock sank all the way down, blocking off his own airway and taking him deeper than he had any right to be inside another human.

Sherlock was deep-throating him.

Sherlock Holmes. Was _deep-throating_. **Him**.

He couldn’t believe it. Clearly, when he’d claimed to be ‘good with his mouth’ John had severely underestimated his meaning. As his cockhead pressed into the tight restriction of his throat, Sherlock attempted to swallow around him. John cried out, seeing stars behind his eyelids, his legs twitching and his fingers spasming between Sherlock’s curls. After a few incredible seconds, Sherlock came up for air.

This was quite possibly the best blow job John had ever experienced, and his orgasm suddenly felt very, very close as he sunk all the way back into that impossible space again.

“Sher—Sherlock. _Fuck_ , that’s incredible,” he gasped, his heart pounding in his ears. His cock throbbed almost painfully hard between those lips, constricted by strong muscles as he was alternately being squeezed and sucked. Stealing a glance down at where Sherlock knelt over him, he could see the sheen of sweat forming over his brow, those dark eyes closed in careful concentration. It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

Sherlock’s fingers gripped his hips like a vice, keeping them steady, something he was glad for; the urge to thrust up into him was beyond his ability to control. “I’m close,” he warned, barely able to form the sounds between dragging heaving lungfuls of air. His balls drew up tight and he felt himself thickening, wedged deep inside Sherlock’s long throat. “If you — _nng_ — if you don’t stop, I’m—”

For a dangerous moment, Sherlock didn’t let up. John was right on the edge when he finally withdrew, slipping off the spit-soaked head with an obscene smack. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard, but his eyes were pools of black delight when he smirked up at John, wiping errant dribbles of saliva from his chin with the back of his hand. The debauched sight of him alone almost had John coming there and then.

Eager to keep John riding the crest of his orgasm, Sherlock quickly started pumping him with his fist as he clambered back up towards eye-level. His hair was wild and his skin gleamed with sweat, but John was in no better state. He was a wreck; breathless and whimpering, unable even to properly move his lips as Sherlock snaked his tongue between them, tasting of salt and John’s own heady arousal.

“Not that I have any qualms about finishing you that way,” he purred, watching John’s twitching features as he steadily jerked him, “but it was a bit dark last time I found myself here. I want to see you this time.” His fist slipped easily over John’s cock thanks to the generous coating of saliva, the sound of wet skin-over-skin friction competing for volume with the mutual sounds of their breathing into each other’s mouths.

“Next time,” he promised, dropping his voice to a low rumble, “I want you to come down my throat.”

It was shocking. He’d never heard Sherlock say something so _filthy_ , and that’s all it took to tip him over the edge. The air left him in a rush as his orgasm thundered through him. His cock shot milky ropes of ejaculate between them, coating Sherlock’s stomach above him, spilling over his hand and dripping down onto John’s skin. He might have cried out in pleasure, but he couldn’t hear it. His vision tunnelled out, every nerve sparked into life as wave after wave of bright, electric pleasure scrambled his brain and compelled every muscle in his body to clench, and clench, and _clench_.

All the while, Sherlock’s sharp eyes fixated on him, wide-eyed and enthralled by the powerful reaction he’d wrought out of the body beneath him. His fist, still wrapped around John’s relaxing member, massaged him through the remnant aftershocks. After what felt like an eternity, John went boneless beneath him.

He hadn’t even realised he’d closed his eyes, until he felt a pair of soft lips against the tip of his nose and a gravelly voice floating over him.

“Did you fall asleep? I wouldn’t be surprised; that looked fairly satisfying.”

When John looked up, Sherlock looked pleased as punch. He had settled beside him on the bed, half-laying on John with his arm draped over John’s chest and their legs entwined. John tugged him down to share a lazy kiss.

“God. I haven’t come like that in… in…” He let out a deep sigh, barely able to muster the energy to form a coherent sentence. His lids felt heavy. He really could fall asleep like this, in Sherlock’s arms, except there was the slightly inconvenient matter of the mess drying over his stomach to deal with.

He made a move to haul himself upright, but Sherlock stopped him with a finger to John’s lips. “Stay there. I’ll grab something.”

He disappeared through the frosted glass door to the bathroom, emerging a minute later with a damp flannel. He cleaned John with such careful attention, making sure to get every last bit, and looked no less pleased to be doing this than he did at any other point during their lovemaking.

John’s heart swelled with affection for him. He didn’t understand how he could be this lucky.

He had woken that morning fully convinced of his decision to leave. With his feelings in turmoil, there was no way he could live here any longer. It had seemed that, not only did Sherlock not want to be anything other than his friend, but even if he did, John saw no way they could be together in the way both of them would have wanted.

He hadn’t actually met anybody asexual before. He knew of it, of course, but textbook definitions were far from an adequate primer when faced with all the complexities and nuance of a real life example.

He had assumed sex would be totally out of the question. After all, he’d recalled his own reactions so many times after masturbating to porn on the Internet. There was always a stark difference in his appreciation for the material before his orgasm, and directly after it; to put it lightly, some of the things he enjoyed in the heat of the moment could turn his stomach after the fact.

So he had imagined an asexual’s experience of sex to be like a permanent state of the latter. Sherlock had shocked him by not only being open to the idea of pleasing him in that way, but having undeniable enthusiasm for it.

Indeed, the man was positively glowing, as if he’d been the one to have just had the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life. To look at them both, John doubts anybody would have been able to tell the difference.

Sherlock finished up and tossed the flannel towards the bathroom door. When he looked back at John, he cracked up. “Good God, John. You look utterly exhausted.”

“I think you broke me,” John mumbled. Sherlock’s voice sounded rough at the edges. He reached up to stroke his fingers gently along his stubbly jaw. “That didn’t hurt, did it? Sounds like it’ll be sore.”

“Worth it though,” Sherlock said with a coy grin. “It’s not bad. People deliberately do far worse to themselves in the pursuit of satisfying sex.”

“Hmm,” John hummed. “Like anal,” he offered, without really thinking about it. Sherlock, bless him, looked mildly alarmed at the idea.

“Yes, well… As long as you never ask for that, we should have no problems. But everything else is good. More than good, in fact.”

He waved it away. “Don’t worry. I’ve never actually tried it, and not sure I see the appeal in doing so. Seems a bit… destructive, physiologically speaking. It’s enough of a worry knowing most of us end up incontinent in our old age. Seems a lot of people are in a hurry to get there far sooner.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. John laughed. And just like that, they were back to their old selves, conversation spiralling into weird tangents about sex and the bizarre things people do about it.

Everything was different now, yet they were exactly the same as before. There was just another layer to their relationship now. A deeper truth to it. They had unlocked the door, found the missing piece of the puzzle that finally completed them both.

“So will you stay?” Sherlock asked some time later, as they cuddled on top of the bed. There was uncertainty there, as if he didn’t quite trust the obvious conclusion. As brilliantly clever as he was, sometimes he still needed the simplest things spelling out.

“’Course. Of course I’ll stay.”

“And is this… enough?” he asked, worrying at his lip.

John stared into his beautiful, nebulous eyes, and the answer that came to him — the one closest to the truth of what he was feeling at that exact moment — was to a slightly different question. Hugging him closer, he replied anyway: “I’ll _never_ get enough of you.”


	4. Chapter 4

They showered and got dressed not long after that. John popped downstairs to Speedy’s to pick them up something as a late breakfast. It was still an hour or two before lunch, and when he came back into the living room, Sherlock was putting on an unfamiliar coat.

“Off somewhere?” John said, lifting a container out of the paper bag. “Brought you a sandwich. Ham and pickle.”

Sherlock made a pleased noise. “Leave it in the fridge. We need to go shopping.”

“Oh?” John called from the kitchen. When he returned a moment later, Sherlock was waiting for him by the door. John followed him downstairs. It didn’t matter where they were going, after all; he would always follow, anywhere Sherlock lead him.

“Well for one, I need a new Belstaff, after those cretins stole mine last night. And also…” He glanced thoughtfully past John’s shoulder, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Actually, I think I’ll keep that a surprise.”

Sherlock opened the front door to the sounds of London’s busy weekday morning. He took John’s hand as they stepped out onto the street, and perhaps the most predictable thing about Sherlock, John thought, was that he  _ always _ managed to surprise him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this to get over a bad bout of writer's block. Have never enjoyed myself more. Thanks for reading!


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